


Shelter From the Storm

by elithewho



Category: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
Genre: Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Music, Mutual Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: It all started because Llewyn needed a place to stay. It felt temporary at the time, like he’d land on his feet eventually and just needed somewhere to hang his hat in the interim.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celeste9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeste9/gifts).



> thanks as always to my beta <3
> 
> merry yuletide! ;D

It all started because Llewyn needed a place to stay. Based on how his life would turn out, that seemed fitting. But it felt temporary at the time, like he’d land on his feet eventually and just needed somewhere to hang his hat in the interim.

“You can’t stay with us,” Jean said immediately. He hadn’t even asked really, just hinted at it.

“OK,” Llewyn said slowly and Jim looked surprised.

“I’m sure we have the space…” he began but Jean cut him off.

“We don’t have the space, he can stay somewhere else,” she said, her tone final.

Llewyn sighed. Diane had moved back to Akron and Llewyn was pretty much broke. She didn’t even have the courtesy to let him stay in their old place until he could find his own because he “didn’t pay rent anyway.” Which was technically true, but still. That hurt.

“What about Mike?” Jim said conversationally.

“Mike Timlin?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’d let you sleep on his couch,” Jim said with a smile. Jim always had a smile on his face.

Llewyn glanced over at Mike Timlin, who was at the bar. They knew each other casually, played together a few times. He was an alright guy.

 

That night, Llewyn went back to Mike’s place with him, lugging all his stuff. It wasn’t much; there was only so much he could carry when Diane told him to get lost. 

“Need help with that?” Mike asked good-naturedly and Llewyn shook his head, hiking the strap of his bag higher up his shoulder.

“Thanks again for letting me crash,” he said. “I’ll find something more permanent soon.”

“It’s no problem,” Mike said again. “Maybe I need the company.” He sounded so sincere that Llewyn was tempted to believe him.

Mike’s place was indeed tiny. A threadbare couch barely fit in one corner. But the overall effect was neat and orderly, every bit of furniture slotted into its place like it had been made to fit there. Stacks and stacks of records were neatly organized on several bookshelves. 

“Make yourself at home,” Mike said and Llewyn dumped his shit beside the couch. “Let me get you some sheets and a pillow.”

Llewyn tested out the couch while he was gone. It was a little sunken, a little squishy, but he’d slept on worse. Sure, it was a little short when he was all stretched out, but at least Llewyn wasn’t very tall to begin with. Not like Mike.

Mike came back with a bundle of bedsheets and an extra pillow. He nodded to Llewyn’s guitar case as he helped him set up the sheets into the semblance of a bed.

“Wanna play something?”

“Sure.”

Mike was a good partner to play with, but Llewyn already knew that. They played one or two songs together and then Mike broke out the beers. That spurred them on for a few more hours and Llewyn wasn’t paying any attention to the time. 

“Shit, it’s past three,” Mike announced, looking at his watch. 

Llewyn conceded that they should both probably get some sleep, but he didn’t really want to. The beers had added a smooth, hazy glow to everything and he was enjoying Mike’s deep rumbling laugh, the way he seemed to read Llewyn’s mind with his harmonies, the way his voice fell into perfect rhythm with Llewyn’s guitar. There was such a warm, comfortable atmosphere between them that Llewyn didn’t want to let it go.

“Night, man,” Mike said, squeezing his shoulder when he walked past him the bedroom. 

“Night,” Llewyn muttered, rubbing his head where the beer made his temple ache.

That night, Llewyn tossed and turned on the narrow couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. His head throbbed and he knew his body was exhausted, but he couldn’t seem to get to sleep. He was still riding a rush of euphoria from playing with Mike. That was the reason he started playing folk music in the first place, finding that true authenticity and feeling in the music. He was starting to think he’d made a really good decision, asking if he could stay with Mike.

 

Over the next few weeks, Llewyn knew he should have been saving his pennies, asking around for places he could stay long term. Maybe even have his own room, with a real bed. But Mike didn’t seem in any rush to get rid of him and Llewyn was enjoying their time together so much, he didn’t really want to let it end.

Llewyn had never been an especially extroverted person. He had lots of friends, but being around them all the time was exhausting. He’d joined the merchant marines because his dad had been a sailor, it made sense at the time. Being stuck in a sardine can filled with people he had to interact with constantly had been difficult, to say the least. But he didn’t feel so drained hanging out with Mike. He could be just as quiet as Llewyn and it didn’t feel awkward when they lapsed into silence together. 

Everyone loved Mike, even Jean. Llewyn felt more like a normal human around him, as opposed to weird and out of place.

“We should record some tracks,” Mike said casually one evening as they played together.

“Yeah?” Llewyn said hopefully. He’d been thinking the same thing, but studio time was expensive.

“Well, if you want to,” Mike said, almost bashfully.

“Of course I want to,” Llewyn said in a rush. He hadn’t wanted to seem too eager. 

A slow shy smile spread over Mike’s face and Llewyn found himself blushing for some stupid reason.

 

Working on the record meant even more late nights together, not just working on songs, but chatting about anything and everything.

“Were you in love with her?” Mike asked one night, when the subject got on Diane for some reason.

Llewyn took a second to think. He might have shrugged off the question from anyone else, but he had gotten in the habit of painful honesty with Mike.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe not.”

“That happens a lot,” Mike said sagely, no hint of judgment in his voice. “People get comfortable with each other.”

Llewyn took a long drag on his cigarette, thinking.

“Maybe I’ve never been in love,” he said, and although he had never thought about it before, he knew it was true.

Mike looked up at him, brown eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“How can you sing about love if you’ve never felt it?” he said in a soft voice. Llewyn might have bristled at that comment, but from Mike it didn’t sound accusatory.

“I dunno,” he muttered, hands absently picking at the strings of his guitar. “So you’ve been in love, I take it?”

“Of course,” he said after a beat.

“It didn’t work out?” Llewyn asked.

Mike shook his head, eyes low.

“Did she leave you?” Llewyn pressed, since Mike was being awfully reserved about the subject, and Llewyn had gotten used to honesty being the norm between them.

But Mike just shook his head again and Llewyn decided to just drop it. He knew Mike could be sensitive, that he felt things very deeply. He let him be. 

 

Alcohol was not an unusual component in their time together, stretching late into the night most of the time. Llewyn enjoyed the distancing effect of booze, the way it made the rest of the world soft and fuzzy, easier to touch than the hard-edged callousness he was used to experiencing. It greased the gears of his conversation, opened him up to laughter and maybe even sharing himself. Talking about himself, more than just the surface of things.

It was usually around 3 or 4 in the morning when they were both too plastered to continue and they’d get to sleep, Mike in his room and Llewyn on the couch. He had gotten used to the squishy cushions, to the sag right in the middle, the way his legs were always bent at a slight angle so he could fit. It would have been nice to sleep in a real bed, but then he’d miss out on spending every night with Mike.

One night, after they played at The Gaslight and then stumbled home, Mike pulled out some beer as usual. Llewyn wasn’t sure how Mike ended up on the couch next to him when he usually sat in the easy chair, but there he was. 

“Light me,” Llewyn muttered, sticking a new cigarette between his lips.

Instead of taking out his lighter like Llewyn expected, Mike leaned in close, touching the glowing end of his own cig against Llewyn’s unlit tip. Llewyn felt himself blush, which was stupid, but he couldn’t help it. He took in a shaky breath, but his own cigarette wouldn’t light. Mike grabbed the back of Llewyn’s neck, holding his head steady as they both took a long drag. Llewyn tasted smoke and Mike finally pulled away, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. Llewyn rubbed a strangely itchy palm against his cords. He could still feel Mike’s fingers against his neck, warm imprints that made him twitchy. Mike didn’t seem to notice.

“Cheers,” Mike said, holding up his bottle.

Llewyn clinked his own bottle against it, and they lapsed into silence. Usually, Llewyn enjoyed their sort of comfortable contemplation, but it felt oddly tense that night. Llewyn found himself glancing over at Mike beside him, his eyes catching on the way Mike’s lips curled around his cigarette every time he took a drag. Llewyn felt warm. Maybe it was just the booze.

After what could have been hours or just a few minutes, Mike set down his beer bottle and stubbed out his cigarette in the mug they used as an ashtray. 

“I’m calling it a night,” he said, sitting up.

“Night,” Llewyn muttered. 

To his surprise, Mike leaned foward, giving him an awkward half hug. Llewyn felt his warm fingers brush the back of his neck again and he froze. Mike was close enough that Llewyn could smell the beer on his breath and hear how hard he was breathing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, hand clumsy at it teased the curls at the base of his head.

Llewyn could only swallow thickly. Mike stumbled off to bed, knee knocking into the rickety coffee table, making it jiggle. His palms felt clammy, his skin prickly, like he was 16 again and trying to work up the courage to talk to a pretty girl. 

The next morning, Llewyn expected things to be awkward. But Mike greeted him like usual and made the coffee, loading Llewyn’s cup with sugar and cream the way he liked it. Llewyn couldn’t articulate why he appreciated that so much. Diane had been asking him how he liked it until the end.

That night in the studio, Mike seemed moodier than usual. He could get like that, sort of turned inward, like he couldn’t escape his own head. Llewyn tried to lighten the mood, cracking a few jokes. Mike, at least, could usually appreciate his brand of dry humor. 

But he was too sullen for that, it seemed, and Llewyn felt like an asshole. He didn’t really know how to interpret what had happened the night before, or even if he was overthinking it. 

“Are you ready to wrap up?” Mike said after a few moments and Llewyn nodded jerkily. 

Mike was silent the whole train ride back to the apartment and Llewyn wanted to shake him, ask him what was wrong. But he didn’t. He kept his distance, asking fake casual to bum a cigarette when they got in and Mike had thrown his keys on the kitchen table.

“Let’s listen to something,” Llewyn suggested and he thought Mike paused for a second before nodding.

Llewyn put on a Blind Willie Johnson record and they sat on the couch together, silently listening and smoking. There was unmistakable tension in the air, but Llewyn did nothing, afraid of doing something to disrupt their quiet peace.

The record came to an end, a faint scratching replacing Willie Johnson’s deep voice. Mike went to stand up, paused, and looked over at Llewyn. His eyes were curiously hooded, oddly intense in the yellow light. Llewyn’s hand trembled as he reached over to the coffee mug to snub his cig. Mike grabbed his wrist, his fingers warm and long. Llewyn froze, gone all deer in the headlights again.

He was going to say something, he really was. Something like, “What the hell, Mike,” or “I’m not queer,” but any attempt at speech stuck in his throat. Mike leaned in close, pressing his warm mouth against Llewyn’s. That was the moment to push him away, to get off that couch. But Llewyn didn’t move. Mike’s lips were soft, tender as he kissed him and Llewyn probably moaned a little because his lips parted and then Mike’s tongue was teasing the inside of his mouth.

The world spun dizzily, caught off its axis, the sound of the record faintly crackling as it kept spinning mingling with the soft, wet sounds of two mouths moving against each other. Mike was tall enough to loom over Llewyn most of the time, and he had to tilt his head downward to kiss him properly. He shifted closer, all but pressing Llewyn against the back of the couch, one hand tangled in Llewyn’s hair, the other still wrapped around his wrist, fingers stroking the sensitive skin directly over his pounding pulse.

Llewyn heard himself moan again and Mike deepened the kiss. His skin was on fire. He couldn’t breathe. Mike’s fingers tickled the back of his neck and Llewyn squirmed minutely. Pulling back only a fraction, Mike looked at him. Llewyn still couldn’t find his voice, but maybe he didn’t have to. He did know that he wanted Mike to keep kissing him. 

Hours past, or maybe days. Llewyn felt like he could open his eyes and see that the sun had risen, but he didn’t want to open his eyes. Mike had fully pinned him to the couch, one hand tickling his ribs, the other gently pulling his hair. Llewyn’s hands were still shaking, and he grabbed at fistfuls of Mike’s shirt, not knowing what else to hold on to. But if he didn’t hold on to something he would fly apart. Mike held him held down, teeth nibbling on his lower lip, then sucking a dark bruise onto his neck and Llewyn was arching up against the thigh planted between his legs. 

“Jesus, Llewyn,” Mike muttered, rubbing back against him, just as hard in his jeans.

Mike’s hand had snuck down his body, fingers ghosting over his stomach before snapping open his pants and pushing inside his boxers. Llewyn wasn’t sure how it had gotten to that point, he had a feeling that it was all moving too fast, that he should say something to that effect, but a bigger part of him didn’t want Mike to stop at all. Especially when he wrapped a hand around his hard-on, pulled it out and pumped it loosely. Llewyn groaned, his head falling back, hips pushing harder into his hand.

He lay there panting for a while, sweat gathering at his hairline as Mike jerked him off and kissed his throat, sometimes biting a little which made Llewyn’s dick twitch. His hands were shaking, but Llewyn didn’t want to just sit there and let Mike do all the work. He found the bulge in Mike’s pants and squeezed. 

“Oh, fuck,” Mike groaned, his hand stuttering around Llewyn’s cock. The sound in his voice made Llewyn want to get in his pants even more.

Mike caught his mouth in another burning kiss as Llewyn managed to get his cock out, stroked clumsily. Mike was thicker than him, his skin hot and dry in his palm. Llewyn rubbed the crown with his thumb, gathering precome and Mike swore faintly under his breath.

Llewyn came first, with Mike’s voice in his ear muttering, “Come on, come for me, Llewyn.” He bit his lip hard, head lolling back as he grunted. Llewyn’s hand felt weak, unpracticed as he tried to stroke Mike off, sweat making his body feel hot and cold at the same time. Mike pressed a tender kiss on his lips and then laid his forehead against Llewyn’s, fucking his hand a little desperately. He came with a soft moan and Llewyn drank in the sound. 

Afterwards, Mike collapsed on top of him, pressing his hot face into Llewyn’s neck and kissing his shoulder. Llewyn’s heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He suspected he was going to feel confused as hell when his brain started working again, but for the time being he just let Mike wrap him up in a sweaty hug. He would think about it tomorrow.

 

Nothing really changed. They worked on their record, got drunk together, performed together at The Gaslight. They’d stumble home and drink, listen to old records, fool around on the couch. That was the only difference, really, and Llewyn had expected he’d be more concerned about it. He’d never thought he was queer, he’d never even considered it, but kissing and touching Mike felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

He didn’t want to think about it, examine it more closely. He just wanted to enjoy their closeness, that connection he had never felt so profoundly with anyone. 

Sometimes the rest of the world forced him to think about it, however. One evening they were hanging out at The Gaslight, watching Jim and Jean play. Llewyn had ceased to feel jealous over the easy way that Jim and Jean cared for each other. It used to make Llewyn feel like an outsider. That night, he maybe had one too many whiskeys at the bar and Pappi was in a good mood, not inclined to throw them out if they got too smashed. The booze was making him much more inclined to touch Mike than he usually would be in public. And Llewyn wasn’t exactly the most casually tactile person.

Jim and Jean had finished their set and Mike had bought them drinks. Jean kept giving Llewyn a funny look and it made him self-conscious. Mike said something quintessentially Mike-ish and Llewyn had touched his arm fondly, laughing with the other two. But his touch lingered a bit too long, his fingers stroking the wrinkled fabric around Mike’s forearm. Llewyn wasn’t aware of what he’d done until he caught Jean’s eye. Suddenly he knew exactly how it must look and his skin felt transparent, like the whole bar was staring into his brain. 

He pulled away, face burning red. Now it was really obvious. Mike gave him a concerned look as Llewyn’s shoulders hunched, but didn’t say anything. Llewyn wanted to make some grand proclamation. He wanted to stand up and announce to the whole establishment, “I’m not queer, by the way.”

But he didn’t. He didn’t want to imagine the way Mike might react and Llewyn had never been one for grand proclamations anyway. The urge faded almost as soon as it arrived.

The walk home was much more tense than usual. It made Llewyn feel like an asshole because Mike seemed to be struggling to figure out what he did wrong. Llewyn didn’t feel inclined to talk about it.

He pretended to be too tired to stay up drinking that night and begged off their usual ritual. Which would have included making out and heavy petting, without a doubt. The next morning, Mike seemed down. He got into those sullen moods sometimes and now Llewyn felt like the sole cause. He wanted to apologize, but didn’t know how to bring it up without some completely stupid attempt at explaining himself.

They met at the studio as usual later in the day. It was easy to set aside whatever was between them when they had work to do. If Mike was more reserved than usual, Llewyn didn’t mention it. That night, Llewyn was genuinely exhausted. He had hardly slept the night before, tossing and turning and overthinking everything. But when Mike told him he had a new record to show him, Llewyn couldn’t turn him down.

Mike’s room was small and tidy and everything had its place. It made Llewyn feel warm and contained, almost swaddled. Mike pulled out an old battered Lightnin’ Hopkins record and presented it to Llewyn proudly.

“Cool,” he said sincerely, examining the case, which was in very good condition.

They chatted briefly about how Mike came across it, how he wanted to listen to it right away. Llewyn felt like he was going to fall asleep standing.

“I’m pretty beat,” he said and watched Mike’s face fall. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Why did he always have to be such an asshole?

“It’s fine,” Mike insisted. “I’m tired too.”

“Night,” Llewyn said awkwardly, turning to go.

“Wait,” Mike said, then pausing for a second as Llewyn froze. “Stay here.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

Llewyn looked into his eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze. He couldn’t speak for a moment. He glanced at Mike’s bed behind them, looking cozy and inviting.

“Yeah, OK,” he finally said and Mike smiled.

They both stripped down to undershirts and boxers and climbed into Mike’s narrow bed. It didn’t feel awkward at all. Mike wrapped his long arms around Llewyn’s torso, cuddling him close, burying his face in the crook of Llewyn’s neck, kissing the skin lightly. Llewyn shivered just barely, rubbing Mike’s forearm where it pressed into his chest.

It felt so good, so right, that he realized it didn’t matter what the fuck anyone else thought about them. It didn’t even matter if Llewyn was queer or half-queer or whatever the fuck, all that mattered was Mike’s warm embrace.

Llewyn couldn’t even remember saying “I love you,” to his parents, which had seemed a little odd to him as he grew older. He didn’t really know how to say it to anyone. But as Mike brushed the curls off his neck and kissed him, warm and tender, Llewyn didn’t need to say it at all, or even hear it. They both knew.


End file.
